"Say, they say Lawson's going to marry that girl."
"He's a damned fool then," said Miller.
Miller was a German-American who had changed his name from Müller, a big man, fat and bald-headed, with a round, clean-shaven face. He wore large gold-rimmed spectacles, which gave him a benign look, and his ducks were always clean and white. He was a heavy drinker, invariably ready to stay up all night with the "boys," but he never got drunk; he was jolly and affable, but very shrewd. Nothing interfered with his business; he represented a firm in San Francisco, jobbers of the goods sold in the islands, calico, machinery and what not; and his good-fellowship was part of his stock-in-trade.
"He don't know what he's up against," said Nelson. "Someone ought to put him wise."
"If you'll take my advice you won't interfere in what don't concern you," said Miller. "When a man's made up his mind to make a fool of himself, there's nothing like letting him."
"I'm all for having a good time with the girls out here, but when it comes to marrying them—this child ain't taking any, I'll tell the world."
Chaplin was there, and now he had his say.
"I've seen a lot of fellows do it, and it's no good."
"You ought to have a talk with him, Chaplin," said Nelson. "You know him better than anyone else does."
"My advice to Chaplin is to leave it alone," said Miller.